


Perceptions

by Zhie



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bunniverse, Eating Disorders, Librarians, M/M, Revelations, romantic dinner
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-12-24 21:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12021504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zhie/pseuds/Zhie
Summary: A local eating establishment provides the perfect opportunity for Erestor and Fingon to relax after work at the library.





	Perceptions

**Author's Note:**

> Titling this work was painful, darlings, more so than giving birth to it. It was written yesterday, but you know how it goes when I release things without names into the world. They end up with names that look like droids from Star Wars, and we simply cannot have that. Luckily for us, little Perceptions is not ready to join its older siblings in the Bunniverse. Enjoy!
> 
> (And do remember, darlings, if you're having trouble with the order of things - worry not, I have issues, too. That is why [this document](https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1R7e1nky65lxhvfIabDX7n_TbknuhMH0m4eero6A-GC0/edit?usp=sharing) exists, to attempt clarity with hundreds of stories and thousands of years while I get things uploaded and in order here.)

“I can tell it has cheese inside.”

“Would you like another one?”

“Yes, please.”

“How are we doing here?”

Erestor looked up at the server and smiled. “I think we are doing well.”

“Quite well,” agreed Fingon, though he did not look at the server, nor was he expected to do so.

“Let me know if you need anything,” she said as she refilled the glasses of water and then walked to the next table, which was several paces away.

There was only one large curved padded bench with a high back at each table, which was a semicircle shape. On the table there was a large platter with steaming vegetables and noodles, a bowl of fruit, and a small wooden board with warm bread and fresh butter. The only silverware was a knife on the board, and Erestor picked up a mushroom stuffed with cheese and herbs between his fingers. “This one is a little bigger, so watch my fingers when you take a bite.”

“Alright.” Fingon parted his lips slightly. When he felt the moistness of the mushroom press against his mouth, he used his tongue to help maneuver the food before he carefully took a bite and sucked in the juices that tried to escape. Per the server’s suggestion, he had a napkin tucked into his shirt just in case, and it came in handy at that moment. “These are not the usual white mushrooms,” he now realized.

“Nope,” confirmed Erestor.

Fingon chewed slowly. The mushrooms were tender, yet remained firm and earthy, their juices mingling with sharp notes from the melted cheese at the center. “Cheddar.”

“Very good,” said Erestor.

“No clue what the greens are.”

“Just chives,” Erestor revealed. He waited until Fingon was done before he offered the rest of the mushroom to him, then ate one himself. “One left,” he said.

“You can have it.”

“I think we can share it.”

Fingon stayed still and opened his mouth again. When the food began to pass his lips, he once again guided with his tongue, but something was different. He smiled around the mushroom once he felt Erestor’s nose bump against his. Lips brushed his, and he bit into the mushroom even more carefully than he previously had. “That was lovely,” he said after they finished the appetizer. 

After he licked his lips, Erestor asked, “Fruit? Vegetables?”

“Surprise me,” answered Fingon.

Nullastar was a little place off the main path near the school where Erestor and Fingon worked. During the day, it was a tea house called Yulda. In the evenings, the sign was flipped, and it catered specifically to couples visiting or living on the island who wanted a lingering dinner experience based on trust in one’s partner. Food at each table was served as if only one person was eating a rather large portion. Dinners could take hours, though not due to the amount of food. 

It was due to one member of each party being blindfolded.

“See what you think of this,” said Erestor.

Again, Fingon opened his mouth. Something oddly textured, almost fuzzy, passed his lips. He bit down slowly, and found it to be soft. Tiny particles teased his tongue, and he mushed the vegetable against the roof of his mouth. “I know what this is, but it tastes different than I thought it would. Broccoli,” he added, for they had agreed from the onset to play the ‘what is it?’ game rather than have Erestor describe what was next as so many other couples were doing. “Just tastes the wrong color.”

“What color does it taste like?” asked Erestor as he picked up a piece and ate it.

“Like a buttery yellow. And not because of butter. There is no butter, right?”

“Just a little salt, I think,” said Erestor. 

“May I have another piece?” 

Erestor smiled and used his thumb to wipe away a spec of green from the corner of Fingon’s mouth. “Of course, sweetie.”

This time, Fingon moved the morsel around his mouth slowly. “I like how this feels,” he said after he moved it into his cheek to speak. “I know that sound weird, but I just like feeling all of the bumps with my tongue. There is something fun about it.”

The smile widened. When Erestor had lazy mornings, he would sometimes stop at the tea house with some of Fingon’s interns (who were only just beginning to catch on to what Erestor’s relationship with their supervisor might be, and delighted in spending an hour trying to trip up the acquisitions librarian who, if nothing else, had the favor of the director of research). It was during one of these visits that he learned of the establishment’s dual personality. At first, the idea just seemed fun -- but the more Erestor mulled it over, it seemed better than fun. It seemed necessary.

Several conversations had occurred regarding Fingon’s difficulties with food. He had reached a point where he agreed that his method of near-starvation was not beneficial to anyone, least of all himself. However, the attempt to return to a healthy diet had unexpected hurdles. When faced with anything but meager portions or raw water-heavy foods, he became nauseous. A few times, he even threw up before eating a single mouthful. 

One night, when they arrived home late, overworked and tired, they neglected to light more than a single candle and ate what was readily available -- bread with jam, hard cheese, and roasted nuts. It was only as they were readying for bed that Fingon made the discovery that he had actually eaten more than Erestor. It made up Erestor’s mind to bring Fingon to the establishment, despite the higher than average cost. Erestor had to remind himself they were paying not only for dinner, but also the experience - an experience that seemed now to be well worth the money. 

“If you like that, try this.” Erestor offered another vegetable to Fingon and leaned back to watch. 

Fingon tilted his head as he slowly chewed. “This is… different. I should know this. Is it sweet potato?”

“No. Right color,” offered Erestor.

“Oh! Carrot!” Fingon swallowed and opened his mouth. Another slice of carrot passed between his lips. “It is cut very strangely, as if with a serrated knife.”

“It is interesting how visually appealing everything looks when only half of the people here will enjoy the display,” said Erestor. “The carrot slices do look wavy.” 

Fingon continued to enjoy the other aspects of the meal, from tart raspberries with tiny tendrils he had never noticed before to the sweet scent of watermelon before it seemed to melt in his mouth. He could taste the yeast in the bread, the herbs on the potatoes, and the hint of wine used on the sauce that covered noodles of different shapes and textures. 

“I want to come here again.”

Erestor looked at the nearly empty dishes on their table. “Anytime you want, sweetie.”

“I did good, cupcake?”

Erestor kissed Fingon’s cheek. “You did really well.”

“I expected to feel more full than I do,” admitted Fingon. “Then again, the conversation helped keep me from tracking how much I was eating.”

“Good.” Erestor slowly curled one hand behind Fingon’s neck and massaged it gently. “Dessert?”

“Maybe next time,” Fingon answered after a moment of hesitation. “I hate to ruin a good thing. In fact, she said we could keep the blindfold, right?”

“Yes. The fabric has the same pattern as the curtains and tablecloths,” Erestor described. “The menus are in the same colors, too. Blue, orange, and magenta.”

“That sounds like a terrible combination,” Fingon laughed. “You had to look at that all night?”

“No,” answered Erestor. “I looked at you all night.”

Fingon made a quiet little purring noise, something rare in public, but with the blindfold they may as well have been alone in his mind. He lifted his hands and sought out Erestor’s face, pulled him closer, and kissed him. “You paid when we came in?”

“Indeed. Are you ready to go?”

“One last sip of that stuff we never figured out,” he said, and Erestor helped to move the cup closer to Fingon’s hand.

“I missed the name, but it is some sort of cold frothy mocha tea with fresh mint leaves. It is one of the few teas they do not sell during the daytime,” Erestor explained as Fingon finished the drink.

The server, who had been quite attentive all night, stepped nearby and offered the following information: “We call it suhtolo, the night draught. It contains a variety of relaxing elements. Some think it a sleeping draught, and if you are already tired you may find yourself dreaming easy, but it is only meant to ease the mind.”

“Maybe that is what helped tonight,” Fingon commented once they were effectively alone again. “Ready for round two?”

“Depends,” said Erestor. “What is round two?”

“You need to get me home while I keep the blindfold on.”

“Good thing we took the carriage,” Erestor remarked as he edged his way around the bench in order to stand up and come to the other side of the table. Once there, he drew Fingon to his side, and found his task easier than anticipated as they fell in step. “Shall I make reservations for next week before we leave?” he asked.

“I think I prefer you to surprise me with it. You can make the reservations when you stop by for your next extended morning break.”

“Those morning breaks are unbelievably productive. You have no idea how much gossip your young protégés can share with me in such a short amount of time,” Erestor informed him.

Almost as if they were conjured simply by speaking, Erestor led Fingon out of Nullastar, where three of the interns previously referred to were on their way down the street and walking in their direction, no doubt having ended their shifts at the school. Erestor tried to find an escape route, but with Fingon unable to see, and steps in their way, he bowed his head in the vain hope that none of them would see. 

Too late, for Nasarion, the year three intern and chief of all those learning the trade from Fingon, elbowed Ilquaren, and the movement alerted Cessanya. The other two were first-year assistants, and had knit a close friendship with Nasarion, a red-headed cataloger who was jovial and well-liked, but at times far too serious about his work. Ilquaren was purposely at the school, having written to Fingon two years prior in hopes of finding work there (specifically with a scholar of Vanyarin descent to please his parents, but away from his home on the outskirts of Ilmarin to please himself), while Cessanya was somewhat accidentally hired by simply visiting the library on a regular basis despite not being formally enrolled at the school until after Fingon convinced her that she was intelligent, thoughtful, and in need of a formal education. The last two might have been mistaken for siblings, though Cessanya was Telerin. Both had long blond hair, pale complexions, and sparkling grey eyes, though in personality Cessanya was talkative and known to be shushed more often than she shushed others, while Ilquaren was a fastidious notetaker and a good listener (and often was the one shushing Cessanya).

Cessanya looked ready to greet them, but Nasarion placed a hand over her mouth, while Ilquaren’s eyes moved back and forth and back again, between his mentors, face devoid of emotion. Nasarion crossed his arms over his chest once satisfied that Cessanya was not about to give them away, and smirked as Erestor helped guide Fingon down the stairs. Once at the bottom, Erestor shot all three a warning look.

Unable to contain her need to express her thoughts, yet mindful of the situation, Cessanya mouthed words as she pantomimed along. The first was ‘you’, which was accompanied by obvious pointing at both Erestor and Fingon. ‘Look’ was next, and she pointed to her eyes and then to them. The last one proved more difficult, but she decided drawing the shape of a heart in the air with her fingers was the proper accompaniment to ‘adorable’.

Ilquaren got in on the charade game, pointing first at himself, then to his mouth, and finally at Nasarion, while mouthing to him, ‘I told you so’. Erestor turned his head to the side as a blush crept up his neck. 

Only Nasarion took full advantage of the situation. ‘I want a raise’ was made slightly more difficult to understand with the gestures he paired together, but the second time caused Erestor to roll his eyes. 

“Everything alright?” The sudden pause in the conversation caused Fingon to shuffle slower.

“Just trying not to run into anyone,” replied Erestor. “Busy night on the street. So many people.”

With the exception of the couple and their three subordinates, no one else was to be seen.

‘Fail,’ mouthed Nasarion, and Cessanya giggled before she could catch herself.

“Pardon us, miss,” said Fingon upon hearing the laughter, and Erestor made a shooing motion with his free hand. The trio went on their way, but not without one last silent comment from Nasarion: ‘We all want raises.’

“I just had another idea,” said Erestor as they reached the carriage and he looked around to make sure the young apprentices were not following them. “It would be terrible to let a good blindfold go to waste. What if we had nights like this at home?”

“We could do that,” said Fingon. “That would be quite romantic, I think. I just have one request.”

“What is that?” asked Erestor.

“Please do not cook anything,” begged Fingon, and he and Erestor both laughed. In the short period of time they had been together exclusively, Fingon had gone from being determined to teach Erestor how to cook to having to run outside less than a day later with a pot full of flames (and nothing much else) from Erestor’s first attempt at a simple soup. Boiled eggs had been burned (the marks were still on the bottom of the pot) and there were still red specs on the ceiling from the exploding sauce the following week. In the end, Erestor managed to help by perfecting the arts of salad making and wine bottle opening.

“Promise,” agreed Erestor as they settled into the carriage and headed home.


End file.
